"Boom——"
The earth shook, and snow fell from the pine branches, landing on Hanske's shoulders and neck, sending a cold shiver through him.
Just as he reached up to brush the snow off his neck, the urging voice of the red-haired young man, Meleag, intermingled with the whistle of shells, came through: "Hurry up!"
Hanske had no choice but to shake his neck and continue to step forward.
The cold air froze all smells, leaving only a dry, cold scent.
Even with fur-lined leather boots, stepping on the brittle riverbank ice surface felt piercingly cold.
Not to mention the faint cracking sound of the ice breaking.
He raised his head, and in the vast whiteness of the house, he could see no more than ten or so people at the forefront; beyond that, nothing was visible.
In the cold morning mist, silhouettes swayed, everyone bowing their heads and moving quickly.
The soldiers in the misty ranks were like red-brownish-gray yarn in a washbasin, sometimes visible and sometimes hidden.
